


Just a Cold

by delighted



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Comfort, Domestic, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:07:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22833022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: There’s a new text waiting for him. It’s from Steve of course, and it’s vaguely threatening as most messages from Steve are these days. Still Danny ignores it, and now he’s really playing with fire. Maybe it’ll burn the cold out of him.Or, Danny’s sick, and Steve can’t stay away. The usual comfort fluff. With a little cameo from a gently meddling Grace.
Relationships: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
Comments: 49
Kudos: 387





	Just a Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh it’s been a while. 
> 
> Hopefully I’ll be back to my normal posting soon... meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this bit of fluff that got a little carried away....

“It’s just a cold.”

The words mock the way Danny’s body hurts as the shower spray hits him, feeling more like tiny rocks than soothing water.

“There’s no way this is just a cold,” he had insisted against the diagnosis. He’d wanted the hard drugs. Had been convinced he would get them. So to have been told, no, it’s just a cold—and a mild one at that. Well that had stung almost as much as the water does now.

“This is what happens, Detective,” his doctor had scolded him, hand on her hip, reminding him of his mother. “When you attempt to run your body into the ground at your age. When you don’t eat well, don’t get enough rest, and live on stress and donuts.”

Okay, that was unfair. They were malasadas, and they were the only thing that made life worth living lately, thank you very much.

“This should be a simple cold. It only feels like more because of the way you’ve been treating your body. You have to do better.” She’d smiled sweetly, but it hadn’t exactly made him feel better about her words. “You need rest. You have to promise not to take too much cold medicine and go to work anyway.” She’d paused to look in his eyes, assessing. “Do I need to call someone? Your partner? Your daughter?”

“God no, don’t tell Grace,” he’d shuddered at the thought. She had already been lecturing him about his diet as it was.

Steve, on the other hand.... Well. He won’t deny it would be nice to have Steve’s concern. But he has enough of his own stuff to worry about. Doesn’t need the weight of Danny’s lack of proper self-care added to it.

And so it is that he finds himself leaning against his shower wall, flinching as the water droplets pelt violently down on him, taking it as the punishment it so resembles.

He’d at least managed to get to the store, buying the hardest cold medicine he could (the good stuff, from the other side of the counter), several cans of chicken soup, and some herbal medicine tea thing that tastes disgusting but had actually helped last time he’d been sick.

He hasn’t managed to text Steve yet, but technically he has till Monday morning before he really needs to let him know. That gives him a day and a half to get better enough to fake Steve out, with meds and too much coffee. He knows it can be done. He’s done it before.

“Shit,” he says as he stagers, falling harder against the slick tile wall. “There’s no way this is just a cold.”

He ends up in bed, mostly still wet, but at least warm, crawls under the covers, wrapping them around himself like some kind of protective bubble against the germs inside of him. If only that would work.

The box of medicine sits, unopened, on his bedside table. Taunting him.

“You really shouldn’t even take regular cold medicine, Danny,” his doctor had said, when she’d refused to write him a prescription for the slightly stronger version. “It’ll only trick you into thinking you feel better when you should be resting instead.”

“So you want me to feel this way?” He’d, well, frankly _whined_ at her.

She’d laughed. “No, I want you to take better care of yourself so you _don’t_.”

The words had sounded so much like what Grace has been saying to him. Hell, even Steve’s been singing a similar tune. So while he’d bought the familiar tablets out of spite and habit, he somehow hasn’t managed to bring himself to actually take the damn things.

He falls asleep. And it’s not that kind of magical sleep where you wake up and feel better. It’s more that kind where you wake up and the inside of your mouth feels disgusting, like you can see how we end up swallowing so many spiders in our lifetimes. He looks at his phone, expecting to see it’s been hours. It’s barely been one. Groaning he turns back over—flinching, as that hurts way more than it should—and tries to sleep again.

He doesn’t. He mostly alternates between feeling pathetically sorry for himself that his body can’t be indestructible like it used to, that he can’t just take way too much medicine and push through a cold like this, and being so angry that his body hurts so much he thinks if he had any strength at all he’d punch something.

Eventually he manages to convince himself to get up and make a cup of that horrifically disgusting tea. It’s kind of... enjoyable? Tea shouldn’t be _hot_. Well, obviously it’s hot temperature wise. But spicy tea. Tea that burns your throat on the way down, just seems wrong. Maybe that’s why he likes it. That kind of perverse pleasure of hurting yourself when you feel crappy to begin with. It’s even more repulsive than he remembered, but he drinks maybe a third of it, sitting slumped over on his bed, letting the vile fumes waft into his face, clearing his nose partway. Setting the mug aside, he falls into an awkward heap on the bed, pulls the covers all the way over himself, and falls into something that almost might be called a restful slumber.

When he wakes several hours later it’s to not one but three texts from Steve, asking did he get to the doctor and is he feeling better, and can Steve do anything to help. And it’s not as though Danny doesn’t want to say _Yes, please_. It’s not as though he wouldn’t love to say _Come hold me while I sleep, come pet my head while I’m half delirious with pain_. But he won’t, of course. He’ll say something like _Don’t be a fucking idiot, you don’t need to get sick too_. Which is dumb because Steve’s probably already been exposed, and because Danny really does mean it, and because he’s pretty sure it would actually help.

Still. He ignores the texts for now because he can’t quite figure out what _to_ say and because part of him stupidly hopes that if he ignores Steve long enough he’ll show up.

Which is idiotic and pathetic and probably should make him realize a few things about himself.

(It doesn’t.)

He’s not hungry, but knows he needs to at least try to eat if he’s gonna get better fast. And while the prospect of lingering in this pit of self-pity has its moments of appeal, he knows it’s dangerous for him, so he pushes just enough to get to the kitchen, empty a can of soup into a mug, and lean all the way across the kitchen island while it heats in the microwave.

There’s a new text waiting for him when he makes it back to bed, the soup steaming and too hot to eat. It’s from Steve of course, and it’s vaguely threatening as most messages from Steve are these days. Still Danny ignores it, and now he’s really playing with fire. 

Maybe it’ll burn the cold out of him.

He doesn’t eat his soup. Mostly because he falls asleep waiting for it to cool down.

This time his sleep is fitful. Restless. He half-wakes with it so many times it feels nearly like he’s not sleeping, just whimpering and fidgeting. Which maybe is why he finds it so surprising when he does fully wake, and it’s getting dark out, but his bedside lamp is on, there’s a steaming mug of tea sitting there, and the soft sound of voices in the living room.

He grins to himself, then grimaces as that makes his headache worse. Struggling to sit, he reaches for the tea, grateful. _Relieved_ , really. Not that he’s not capable of taking care of himself when he’s sick. Obviously he is. But there’s no denying it’s nicer. More effective even. To have someone else to help.

He finishes the tea this time. Then gets out of bed to piss. His head is woozy enough just from that he knows he’d better eat something, so he staggers slowly out to the living room.

Steve’s sitting on the sofa. Some old cop show’s on the TV, but he’s not watching. He’s on his phone, messaging with someone, judging from his reactions. Danny’s pretty sure he knows who it is.

“She send you?” He asks. “Or was this you?”

Steve chuckles warmly. “This is all me, buddy. But she’s giving me tips.” He sets his phone down and stands, turning towards Danny. “Ready for some soup?”

He doesn’t, as Danny might, say _god you look like shit_ or _get back in bed before you fall over_. He just looks at Danny sort of softly, fondly. It’s unsettling, if he’s honest.

“Uh, yeah. I should eat something.”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, and moves towards Danny, who takes an ill advised rapid step back, to avoid contaminating Steve unnecessarily. “Whoa, there bud.”

“Don’t wanna get you sick,” Danny rasps out. This standing up malarkey is vastly overrated.

“Uh huh, let’s not worry about that right now shall we? I think you hitting your head on the wall if you fall is the bigger concern for the moment.” He wraps an arm around Danny, steering him back to bed. Once he’s tucked him in (actually _tucked him in_ ), Steve heads to the bathroom and returns a moment later with a lit candle. “To help clear the germs,” he explains with a shrug, and Danny knows he’s gotten that from Grace.

He laughs, and chokes on it, then flinches from the pain and sinks further under the covers, pulling them up over his mouth, frowning at how much it hurts to swallow.

It’s a while before Steve’s back with soup. He’s obviously heated it up the slow way. In a pot. On the stove. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. It’s the perfect temperature. It’s evenly heated. It feels more soothing, comforting, healing. Of course it’s also in a bowl, on a tray, with a dish of soda crackers and a glass of ginger ale with a bendy straw, which is threatening to float entirely out of the glass.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Steve just smirks and walks out of the room.

He’s back, though, before Danny’s had more than a few bites. Sits at the foot of the bed with a sandwich on a plate. A very Danny looking sandwich. Danny feels his eyes narrow as Steve raises the delectable looking construction to his lips, not managing to disguise the playful grin dancing there.

“When you’re better, Danno. When you’re better.” And Danny knows, in one swift flash of comprehension, just exactly the sandwich it is.

“She’s so grounded,” he curses under his breath, taking another spoonful of soup.

“Can you do that?” Steve asks around his mouthful. “Now that she’s away at college?”

“ _Watch me_ ,” Danny growls.

When Steve comes back with a fresh mug of tea after clearing their dishes, he says softly: “Grace says to tell you _you’re_ grounded.”

Then, while Danny sputters, Steve sits in the chair at the side of the bed, takes out his phone, taps at the screen, obviously gets a reply, and smiles.

“You’re giving her status updates aren’t you.”

Steve grins smugly at Danny. “Shut up and drink your tea.”

Surprisingly, Danny does.

When he finishes, he feels sleepy, but pleasantly so. It’s a nice change from the painful, aching tired he’s grown used to. He curls up on his side, facing Steve, watches as he reads something on his phone, drifts slowly off to sleep. Just before he’s out it occurs to him he should probably thank Steve, but he’s too far gone to manage. Still, it warms his heart, somehow, that he’s here, that he’s chosen to spend his Saturday evening playing nurse to his partner, as opposed to the myriad of other things he could be doing. He thinks he murmurs _nice_ , but he might have only imagined it, and then he’s asleep.

It’s probably sometime later, still not truly late at night but later, he wakes to hear very soft sounds of the TV, and it soothes him, in that faded-but-familiar-from-childhood kind of way, so he smiles, turns over with less grunting from pain than before, and drifts back off.

At some point further in the night he becomes vaguely aware he’s restless. There’s so much pain trapped inside his body, and part of him must think that if he fidgets enough he’ll get it out, get it to release. It sure feels like he tries, and that exhausts him back into sleep.

Then again just before morning, he’s aware he’s upset, aware he’s fussing, letting out little pathetic grunts and moans and whimpers, and he tries to quiet the sounds, but he’s too tired, and in too much pain, to really be able to stop himself. He buries his face in his pillow, sobs a few times, and wills himself back to sleep.

The first thing he notices as he seeps toward daylight wakefulness is _warmth._ A comfort that floats gently around him. Maybe a scent, something familiar, something soothing. He makes a sound of contentedness, some rough version of _mmmm_ , guttural with the phlegm clinging stubbornly to his chest walls, and pulls the cloak of sleep back around him still.

The next time it’s a softness. A touch, yes, a touch on his head, that most hypnotically calming thing. This time his sigh is deeper, like he’s let something go, and it nearly feels like he has. He’s not fighting it now. Maybe he’s given in to being sick. Maybe something in him has acknowledged fighting only makes it harder, only prolongs things, only makes it worse. He breathes into the touch, sighs once more, and drifts again into sleep.

When he wakes for real, head throbbing, throat raw, tummy indicating it’s unsettled but unsure if it’s actually hungry or just _empty_ , he knows before he realizes it. Steve’s not in the bed next to him. Which is when he realizes Steve _had_ been in the bed next to him. Danny’s hand goes involuntarily to his head, pressing there, feeling the warmth. Maybe that’s what Steve had been doing, maybe Grace had asked if he had a fever, and that was how Steve had reassured himself he didn’t. Only. There’s touching a forehead to assess temperature, and there’s petting hair. Danny’s done much of both. Knows the difference. Knows the feeling behind it, the meaning.

“Heeey, buddy.” Steve’s appeared in the doorway. Almost as though he’d had some alarm set up to let him know when Danny was awake. “I was beginning to worry! Want some tea? Or do you think you dare have coffee?”

Danny’s brain is struggling with this new information, of where Steve had been—before wherever he’d been just now. But he doesn’t have a place to put it, isn’t sure how to process it, so he stumbles.

“Ugh,” he says, gesturing to his head, since his own hand is still resting there. There, where Steve’s isn’t and he wishes it was. “Head hurts. Want coffee.” Hey, it works. Besides which it’s true.

“Yeah,” Steve says kindly. Softly. “Sure thing. I’ll just make a fresh pot. Gimme a sec.” And he turns slowly, almost as though some tail of thought has tangled with him as he’s started to leave. He seems to pause momentarily in the doorway, but then continues to the kitchen, leaving Danny nearly gasping for air, making him realize he’d not been breathing. That’s certainly not helping the way his head feels.

By the time Steve comes back with two mugs of coffee, Danny’s managed to sit enough to be able to drink it. Unfortunately, that’s made his head feel worse. On top of which, he’d had to breathe kind of heavily to get air back in his lungs, which had the dual effect of causing a coughing fit (which obviously hurt his head) and also leaving him lightheaded. 

So. Probably. Uh... all of that is why? Um. Yeah, it makes sense.... Because otherwise, Danny’s not sure he can explain why—once he’s got his coffee, which does help, and Steve’s decided for some reason to sit at his side, against the pillows with him, and not at the foot of the bed or on the chair—why Danny’s hand finds Steve’s wrist, lifts his hand to his head, places it in his hair, holds it there with his own till he hears a chuckle from beside him, and Steve adjusts so he can less awkwardly pet Danny on the head.

It takes the full cup of coffee before Danny realizes probably Grace told him that one too.

“Got a good playbook there,” he says, handing his empty cup to Steve, who’d set his own aside some time ago.

“Grace is an excellent coach,” Steve concedes warmly.

Danny smiles, lets himself fall a bit further against Steve, who pulls the blanket up around Danny’s shoulders, but then puts his hand back against Danny's head. It’s such a softly comforting thing, having a hand atop your head, stroking your hair, just resting there. He’d done it when Grace was little, because it made _him_ feel better. Of course, it’d taken on a whole new level of meaning during Grace’s recovery. Maybe it had helped her then. Maybe that’s why she’d mentioned it to Steve. As something Danny would like.... And _there’s_ the realization that gives him the hot and cold shivers he’s not had. 

“...Maybe I should eat something.”

Steve seems just as ripped from a daydream as Danny feels. “Yeah, uh. Yep. Of course.”

He moves awkwardly, disentangling himself from Danny, climbing out of bed, standing.

“Soup?” Danny suggests, when Steve seems a little lost.

Steve bites his lips, looks tentatively at Danny and asks, “Or... pancakes?”

Danny just kind of stares, a little bit blankly, a little bit in shock. That is most certainly not a suggestion Steve’s gotten from any child of his. Pancakes while sick? Completely aside from the time and hassle of making pancakes while dealing with a sick child (or two), probably also being at least a little sick himself, plus having extra laundry, extra cleaning (not to mention disinfecting every surface you never even realized you touch so often), and oh the groceries? Fresh eggs? Milk? Now, maybe if you made pancakes from crumbled soda crackers and melted popsicles.... But no. Pancakes. That’s one hundred percent Steve. And that’s making Danny’s heart beat uncomfortably fast.

“Uhhh. Sure. Yeah... that sounds really nice, actually.”

Because the thing is, it really does. And why (other than all the reasons he’s just listed) has he never even thought of that.

Steve looks as surprised by Danny’s _yes_ as Danny’d felt by Steve’s suggestion. He stands there for a beat longer than he should, finally shakes himself out of it, and nods, still looking surprised, then heads towards the kitchen to, presumably, make pancakes. And Danny kind of wants to watch. But he also doesn’t fully feel like standing up is the best idea. And he thinks it’s possible it might take Steve a couple minutes to remember how pancakes are supposed to work. So he grabs his phone, ignoring all his alerts, and he sends Grace a quick line in their chat.

_Thanks for sending me nurse Steve_.

He hesitates. 

_He’s making me pancakes_.

He sets the phone down, but face up so he’ll see if she replies. Which she does, pretty much right away.

_I definitely didn’t tell him to do that_.

He grunts in amusement.

_Of course not_.

There’s a long pause, and he thinks maybe that’ll be it. She’s probably busy, doing homework or maybe out with friends. 

_Is it helping?_

Danny sucks in a breath. So, there is some level of awareness on her part here. He figured, just wasn't sure how much. He lets the breath out, processing. He’s already admitted it to himself. She’ll probably be able to tell anyway. Probably... probably she already knows. If she’d thought to suggest the head petting thing....

_Yeah, it’s helping_.

She sends a heart emoji back.

His own heart thuds heavily, and he’s evidently been not breathing again. He takes a few careful breaths, finds it doesn’t help settle his head, so he sets his phone aside and closes his eyes. He must drift off, though it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s only moments before he feels the dip of the bed as Steve lowers himself at the edge.

“Hey buddy. Can you sit up?”

Danny’s eyes open, focus on Steve. He’s grinning, slightly sheepish, but fond. It flickers toward amused when Danny must look—as he feels—skeptical.

“Or do you want me to feed you?” Steve offers when Danny still hasn’t moved.

“No, I can manage,” he stammers awkwardly in a way that feels like he may as well have said _Yeah, that’d be nice_.

Steve shrugs, indicating he’d been willing to do it, but he sets the tray on Danny's lap and damn but if it doesn’t seem for all the world as if he’s done this before. 

There’s only two pancakes on the plate, not a full stack, which frankly is good because Danny doesn’t think he’ll manage even these two as they’re fluffy and large, perfectly cooked, golden to perfection, and there are a number of ways into the heart of Danny Williams, but perfect pancake making skills are pretty damn near the top of that list. 

(Bringing him coffee in bed, letting him watch his sappy movies, keeping the kitchen tidy, vacuuming, and... petting him on the head, evidently, also feature prominently on that list, but we’ll try not to focus too much on the fact that Steve excels in all those areas, shall we?)

“You want some help there?” Steve asks, waving at the plate Danny hasn’t touched yet, and his tone should be cheeky, or teasing, or something, and maybe it is but to Danny it just sounds soft and kind and caring. 

_Dammit_.

Danny sits back against the pillows, gives Steve what he knows is a challenging look, and watches as Steve prepares perfect little stacks of bites, before adding the syrup. “Say when,” he prompts Danny, but pours so slowly Danny gets impatient, and then gets lost in watching the sheer concentration on Steve’s face. He’s not sticking his tongue out, but he may as well be. Eventually he senses Danny watching, eyes him questioningly, and stalls, freezing at what, the heat in Danny’s eyes? Probably. 

“Thanks babe,” Danny says, trying for nonchalance, hearing instead (much to his embarrassment), heat to match his expression. 

Well, this will be interesting.

Steve sets the syrup to the side, picks up the fork, which still has a perfectly tidy two pieces of pancake, now drenched lightly in syrup, and he holds the bite, tentative yet somehow insistent, towards Danny, who knows it’s a mistake, but closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and waits. And seriously pancakes should not be sexy. Nope. It’s just wrong on so many levels, and probably it’s the not-a-cold speaking, because he’s prepared to swear right there, these are the best pancakes he’s ever had. Which is, honestly, the reason he lets out a soft and really not humiliating moan.

Steve’s the one who turns it into something sexual, the way he shudders, causing the tray to clatter dangerously on the bed. Danny’s eyes shoot open, only just in time to catch the flush rising on Steve’s cheeks.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll manage from here,” Danny says, and if he thinks Steve hands the fork over with no small amount of reluctance, well. Isn’t that intriguing. 

Steve hesitates, once Danny’s got the fork and is eating pancakes as though they're the cure he needs, then finally says “I guess I’ll go clean up.” But he doesn’t move to stand.

Danny pauses his eating. Doesn’t look up because he knows if he does he’ll just say _Yeah, sure, go ahead_.

“You could stay with me.... While I eat,” he adds, as clarification. 

“Yeah?” 

Danny’s pretty sure Steve wishes that had come out sounding amused or indulgent, rather than so blindingly hopeful and eager.

Certain, because it feels so much like they’re not talking about pancakes anymore. So when he looks up, he expects to see that suddenly guarded look Steve gets when he realizes he’s let his feelings out and now he doesn’t know what to do. 

But that’s not what Danny sees. And maybe he does have a fever. Because the look that’s streaming out of Steve’s so familiar hazel eyes is nothing short of breathtaking. He’s looking at Danny like he hung the moon, which let’s be honest, he looks at Danny that way a lot. But there’s this new edge to it. Some additional rawness. Some strange tint of _what might be_. 

Danny takes another bite of pancake, and decides to see where this will go. 

“Grace didn’t tell you to make pancakes.”

“Uhhh. No.”

“They’re really good.” He takes another bite. Notices Steve’s watching his lips as he licks a drip of syrup from them. 

“Umm. Yeah. I mean. Thank you. I’m... glad.”

Steve’s still watching Danny’s lips, so when he takes the next bite he makes sure to drip some syrup down his chin. He wipes it off with a finger which he then sucks on.

And Steve shudders again. 

Damn he’s not good at disguising his interest. Danny wonders if that’s something he’s missed before? Surely he’d have noticed. If Steve’s been going around looking at Danny like this? Like he’s edible. 

Maybe Danny really is delirious. 

Steve shakes it off, looks away. “You want more coffee? I’ll go get more coffee,” he mutters, and gets up and leaves, not taking either of their mugs with him. 

Danny grins to himself, setting the pancake tray to the side. Maybe it’s the food, maybe it’s the sugar, maybe it’s just blood distribution or something, but he finds strength from somewhere, gets out of bed, grabs the mugs, and pads slightly heavily towards the kitchen.

Steve’s standing in the middle of the room looking like he has absolutely no idea why he’s there.

“Hey,” Danny says, gently, so as not to startle Steve. So of course it does and he jumps, actually jumps, and gasps. “Sorry,” Danny soothes, managing not to laugh. “You forgot these,” and he sets the mugs down next to the machine, then turns to face Steve.

The look in his eyes has lost some of the brighter hope and has faded closer towards doubt. Uncertainty. 

And Danny’s got that icky, achy, sick, feel-it-like-a-pain-in-your-chest thing anyway, because of his cold. But his heart just _hurts_ at that sad puppy dog look Steve is sporting right now. He wishes he could do something to fix it. To get that bolder, more hopeful expression back. To get... well, to get a pleased and contented Steve back in his bed, keeping him warm and petting him on the head. 

He takes a step towards Steve. Stabilizes himself with a hand on the kitchen counter. Takes another. 

Steve turns more fully toward him, takes a grounding step of his own—more legs spread almost in case he has to catch Danny if he wavers than an actual step forward. But it also looks like he’s preparing... well, preparing to sweep Danny into his arms, frankly. 

(Which is something Danny would like very much. In case that needs saying.)

Danny makes it the rest of the way to Steve, all three steps of it, in rapid succession, without swaying at all. He grabs hold of Steve’s arms and looks up into his eyes which have started again to fill with hope. 

“Why are you here, really.”

Steve swallows. “You wouldn’t answer my texts?” Probably he doesn’t mean it to be a question, but it makes Danny smile because he’s admitting that’s not really why.

“Did you ask Grace or did she ask you?”

“I told you. It was my idea.”

Danny raises his eyebrows, and waits.

“Okay. I was gonna check on you anyway, but I needed to stop at the store, so I asked her for suggestions.”

Danny nods. Satisfied.

“She... challenged me.”

Danny looks up. Surprise, no doubt, painted clearly on his face. His mouth is very nearly hanging open. “She what now?”

Steve licks his lips and Danny suddenly understands why that’s so damn distracting. “She bet me I couldn’t get you to get better faster than she could.”

He nearly chokes on the boldness, the audacity, the cunning... the outright _manipulation_ of his crafty crafty daughter. “Babe, she played you.”

“Yeah but I think I won.” He’s full on grinning now. He’s also probably about ten seconds away from kissing Danny.

“Babe, I’m still sick,” Danny warns. But he doesn’t move back, doesn’t step away. Doesn’t even look down. Nope, he stands taller, moves closer, looks up into those now sparkling hazel eyes, licks his lips, and waits.

“ _It’s just a cold_ ,” Steve mutters, and sinks into Danny’s lips like he’s only just been managing not to for ohhh about ten years or so. 

The kiss is warm and soft with just enough of a needy, desperate edge to it that when they pull apart after too short a while it leaves them nearly panting, glassy eyed, and lightheaded. 

“You go back to bed, I’ll bring more coffee,” Steve manages to say, though his voice is flatteringly scratchy and raw, and his strut as he turns towards the coffeemaker indicates his _ahem_ condition. 

Danny presses his lips together, says “Mmmhmmm,” appreciatively, and nearly saunters back to bed.

Once he's warmly ensconced back amongst the pillows, he checks his phone to see he’s got a message from Grace. 

_How were the pancakes?_

He types back. _What did you bet him?_

A pause. Those taunting bouncing dots. A pause. Then an incoming video call. 

“What did you bet him, Grace.”

“That is between him and me, Danno.”

“He thinks he won. Did he win?”

She sighs. But she looks pleased. Proud, even. “Yeah. He did.”

“Hi Gracie!” Steve's got the two mugs of coffee in one hand, another plate of pancakes in the other. For himself, presumably.

“Hey Uncle Steve. Smooth move with the pancakes.”

“Desperate times, Gracie, desperate measures.” He sounds nonchalant, but he looks more than a little like he's afraid she'll think he cheated. 

“Well, it looks like it worked.”

“Yeah, kiddo?” _God he sounds pleased_. 

She laughs. It's amused and it's fond, and damn but it makes Danny miss her. And he thinks, too, he might know why she'd been eager to prompt Steve to look out for her dear old dad. 

“ _Yes,_ ” she says. Confident. And also layered with meaning, which makes Danny turn and look at Steve, who has put the coffee and pancakes down and is doing this totally not at all immature dance like he just scored the winning touchdown in the fucking Super Bowl.

Clearly this is no minor bet.

“Come on you guys. What does he win?”

Steve squints down at Danny’s phone, Grace shrugs, gestures _go on_.

Steve sits on the edge of the bed, looks at Danny, smug and elated at the same time. “I win your daughter’s permission to date you.” And dammit but he’s never sounded more delighted, more cocky, more self-satisfied.

Danny mulls it over. Torn, because really it is absolutely adorable. But at the same time he's not entirely willing to let them know he thinks that.

“That right?” He asks. “Is that so?” He bites his lips together and _hmmms_. He looks at Grace who looks half apologetic but mostly just bold like she’s daring him to deny it. Then he looks up at Steve. Who looks more pleased, more proud, more _happy_ than he has since Danny can’t even begin to remember when, and he knows. He can’t draw this out. “Yeah, yeah, okay. As soon as I’m better.”

Steve takes the phone from Danny. “Thanks kiddo. I’ll take good care of him.”

“I know you will,” she says warmly. “Love you both,” and she disconnects.

Steve sets the phone down, scoots over so he’s nestled next to Danny.

“Was that her idea?” Danny asks, softly, against Steve’s chest. The chest he’s always wanted to snuggle against like this. “Or yours?”

Steve pulls him tighter, pets the top of his head, leaves his fingers there, tangled in Danny’s already messed up hair. “All mine, buddy. All mine.”


End file.
